We chatted about how I was settling in and my plans for the farmhouse and barn while we drank our tea. I found him to be good company and easy to talk to.
A little later, out in the barn, Ryan helped me drag the plough and the other thing (a harrow, Ryan told me) out to a corner of the yard. ‘If we pile up any other unwanted metal over there, Lenny can drop by and pick it up any time he’s in the area,’ Ryan said.
In the corner where the machinery had stood there was a rotting piece of carpet, almost obscured by piles of leaves and rubbish that had blown in over the years and got caught among the machinery. I fetched a sack and we scooped up the rubbish, then rolled up the ancient carpet and threw it into the almost-full skip. Poor Ryan was covered in dirt already.
‘Ah, it’s no matter,’ he said, brushing ineffectually at his T-shirt. ‘There’s nothing that won’t wash out. Hmm, what’s this?’ He was looking at the flooring we’d just revealed. There was some sort of wooden trapdoor there, set into the concrete. There was no ring or handle or any way of pulling it up.
‘There’s a crowbar here somewhere,’ I said, rummaging around in the tools on the workbench. I brought it over and handed it to Ryan.
‘You want to see what’s under here?’ he asked, looking up at me from where he knelt on the filthy floor.
I felt a pang of excitement and nerves. Too right I wanted to see! It could be a cellar, or a buried box of treasure, or an entrance to a secret tunnel … I realised I had probably read too many Enid Blyton books in my childhood, but then again, who wouldn’t be excited uncovering a concealed trapdoor? ‘Of course I do!’ I said to Ryan, failing to keep my tone cool and nonchalant.
He forced the crowbar between the wood and the concrete floor, and levered it up. The wood began to split, revealing hinges. He moved the crowbar to the opposite edge from the hinges and tried again. This time the trapdoor lifted. I leaned over him to peer beneath.
There was a shallow hole, dug into the floor beneath the barn. Inside was a wooden crate.
‘Ah, I bet I know what’s in there,’ Ryan said, as he reached in to open the crate. But it was nailed shut. ‘Can you give me a hand to haul this out? I expect it’ll be quite heavy.’
‘Sure,’ I said, and got into position. I was dying to ask him what he thought would be inside. God, I hoped it wouldn’t be bones!
Together, on our knees, we reached down and got hold of one end each of the crate, and lifted it out. As Ryan had predicted, it was heavy, and it was all I could do to stop myself toppling forward on top of it. We dropped it on top of the open trapdoor, and Ryan picked up the crowbar again to lever off the lid.
Whatever was inside was covered with a piece of dirty sackcloth. ‘It’s like pass the parcel – yet another layer before we find out what’s in there,’ I said, as Ryan pulled back the cloth. Underneath were more pieces of sackcloth, but this time each piece was clearly wrapped around something long and narrow. I was beginning to guess myself what they might be. Ryan took out the top one, placed it on the floor and began to carefully unwrap it.
Inside was a rifle. It had a wooden stock, rusty muzzle and the trigger mechanism looked like brass. ‘Ha, as I thought,’ Ryan muttered, half to himself. He pulled out another package, and unwrapped a handgun, and then another. In all there were six rifles and seven handguns in the crate.
‘Oh my God,’ I kept saying, as each one was uncovered. ‘What on earth was Uncle Pádraig doing with a stash of weapons under his barn?’ Even as I said it, thoughts of Daithí and his involvement with the IRA crossed my mind. I’d never known exactly what he did and what he was imprisoned for, or the truth about his death in prison. I opened my mouth to say something but decided against it. Some things, my mother always said, are best kept within the family.
‘He may not have known about them. These date from before his lifetime. I’d say they were from the War of Independence, or perhaps the civil war. The early 1920s, either way,’ Ryan said, as he turned one of the rifles over in his hands. ‘It’s not uncommon, you know. Guns were hidden during the War of Independence. And after the civil war, which followed immediately after, the Republican forces were supposed to hand in their weapons. Some did, but many kept them hidden. This is not the first time I’ve heard of guns being found underneath a cowshed. Or in a cellar, or under the stairs.’
‘Are you sure they’re that old?’
‘Pretty much. The rifles look like Lee-Enfields. Not that I’m an expert.’ He pulled out his phone and took pictures of them. ‘I’ll do a spot of googling, and try to confirm that.’
‘But … what do I do with them? I don’t want them here. Do I report them to the police or something? Would a museum want them?’ I had no idea what to do with them.
‘Yes, I think we should inform the Gardaí. Not sure whether a museum would want them. Most have got stacks of the things already, but you never know. If not, the Guards will dispose of them, I’m sure. Want to take a closer look?’ Ryan was holding the rifle out to me, laid across his flattened palms.
I shuddered. I’d always had a horror of guns. Something so easy to use that could kill a person at a distance scared me. ‘No thanks. Put them back in the box. I’ll need to find somewhere safe for them until the police come and take them away. Wouldn’t want anyone breaking in and stealing one.’
‘They probably wouldn’t fire now. I suspect the mechanisms are too rusty,’ Ryan said, looking closely at the rifle he was holding. He pointed it down at the floor, away from where we were sitting, and put his finger experimentally on the trigger.
‘Don’t!’ I squealed, not able to help myself. Guns scare me.
Ryan looked at me in alarm and put the gun down, wrapping it back in its sack cloth. ‘Sorry. I’ll pack them up. Where do you want them put until we know what to do with them?’
‘There’s a cupboard in the hallway. I think they’re better off in the house.’ Although I hated the idea of having them anywhere near me. These things probably killed people, in their day. But leaving them in the barn where anyone could walk in and take them didn’t seem right. Had Granny Irish known about them? Had she had anything to do with them?
Ryan stood up, replaced the lid of the crate and hauled it up. ‘Show me where, then.’ He followed me inside and I pointed out the large hall cupboard I’d cleared out a few days earlier. There was space on the floor for the crate. Once it was stowed I closed the door firmly.
‘More tea, Ryan?’
‘Yes, please.’
As I put the kettle on again I asked him more about the Irish War of Independence, realising I only knew the roughest outline of what happened. Ryan gave me a brief overview, from the rebellion of Wolfe Tone and his United Irishmen in 1798; the 1916 Easter uprising when the Republic was first proclaimed; through to the 1919–21 Anglo-Irish war, which culminated in the treaty with Britain that led to the formation of the Irish Free State and partition, the creation of Northern Ireland.
The civil war followed almost immediately, between those who were pro- and anti-treaty, with the pro-treaty side winning. The anti-treaty side – the Irish Republican Army – had never accepted partition, and of course, I knew all about their campaigns of the 1970s and ’80s, before the Good Friday Agreement finally brought peace.
‘I’ve a number of books on twentieth-century Irish history in the shop,’ Ryan said. ‘I’ll dig out the best of them for you to take a look at next time you come by.’
‘Thanks, I’d like that,’ I said, smiling over my tea mug at him. It had been an interesting and enjoyable morning, all the better for having Ryan’s company. He was nice, Janice had been right about that. And he was attractive, in a silver fox kind of way. But I wasn’t in the market for a new man.
After Ryan had gone, I was left pondering those guns and what they stood for. Growing up half-Irish in England in the 1970s had been an interesting experience. On the one hand there were the newspapers, my teachers, the BBC – all telling me that the IRA had ‘murdered’ British soldiers, whi
le the soldiers had ‘shot dead’ the terrorists. And then there was my mother, urging me to remember there were two sides to every story, and that every news source would be biased one way or the other.
‘Watch for the use of language,’ she said, ‘and remember that one man’s “terrorist” is another man’s “freedom fighter”.’ Years later, when I understood more of Daithí’s involvement (though I never knew the full story) I would remember those words, and try to tell myself that Daithí did what he did because he believed it was right with all his heart.
But those beliefs killed him, in the end. After an explosion at a military barracks somewhere in County Armagh in which six British soldiers lost their lives, Daithí was arrested and this time there was enough evidence to put him away. He was sentenced to life and sent to Long Kesh. Daithí only lasted three years in prison.
Mum was devastated by Daithí’s loss. He’d been her favourite nephew. She’d never say it out loud, being married to an Englishman and a long-time resident in the UK, but I knew in her heart of hearts she would have liked Ireland to be united once more, and was secretly proud of Daithí for having the courage of his convictions, even if she was at the same time appalled by the consequences of his actions. It was a tricky balance, being an Irish Republican back in those days of the Troubles.
Chapter 12
Ellen, October 1919
It was raining when Ellen left Carlton House for her unexpected free afternoon, and set off for Clonamurty Farm. No Jimmy to meet her at the end of the drive today, as he had no idea she’d be coming. She hoped he’d be at home. If not, she was sure his mother would give her a cup of tea and let her sit and chat for a while in the kitchen. Or she could go home and surprise her father. But if she did that, no doubt her father would give her jobs to do, and it was supposed to be a rest after her exertions yesterday.
She half-ran to the farm, trying to keep under the shelter of overhanging trees where possible, but even so she was soaked to the skin by the time she got there. And the blisters on her left foot, from the long walk yesterday, felt very sore. She ducked in through the gates of the farm and ran straight across to the kitchen door. She tapped on it and then entered, not waiting for a response. Mrs Gallagher had always told her to come straight in, every time.
There was no one in the kitchen. She stood on the back doormat and shook the worst of the wet from her coat and hair, and went down the passageway to look into the sitting room. No one there either.
‘Jimmy? Mrs Gallagher?’ she called, but there was no response.
There’d been someone outside, she recalled, having caught a glimpse of someone near one of the barns. She’d had her head down against the relentless rain when she’d arrived. Maybe it was Jimmy working out there. She turned the collar of her coat up, and went out again through the kitchen door and across the yard to the barn.
The barn door stood part open, but as she approached she hesitated. Jimmy was in there – she could hear his voice, and his father with him, but there were also two other men.
‘They’ll be safe here. No one would suspect us.’ That was Mr Gallagher.
‘They’d better be. We need them guns. We’ll be back for them soon, when things are a bit quieter. You mind they’re kept covered.’ Ellen did not recognise this voice.
Mr Gallagher spoke again. ‘Aye. Close the trapdoor, and I’ll spread the straw around a bit. They’ll be well hidden. And none here will breathe a word.’
There was the sound of a creaking trapdoor being lowered, and straw being brushed across a floor. Then footsteps. Ellen ducked back behind the door and ran back towards the kitchen door. Whatever she’d heard she wasn’t supposed to have heard. His father knew Jimmy was in the Volunteers but not his mother, and Jimmy had urged Ellen not to let on that she knew.
She twisted round, smiling, as Jimmy and the others emerged from the barn, trying to look as though she’d only just arrived. The two men she didn’t know scowled at her, but she ignored them and ran into Jimmy’s arms.
‘Hello! I’m after getting a half-day off. Madame Carlton said I could.’ She hoped the mention of Madame might reassure the men that she was on the right side.
‘We’ll be off, Gallagher,’ said one of them, and Jimmy’s father grunted in response. The two strangers set off in the direction of Blackstown.
‘I’ve work to do,’ Mr Gallagher said, as he picked up a bag of tools and trudged off into one of his other barns.
‘Come inside, out of the rain,’ Jimmy urged, leading her towards the kitchen door. ‘Mammy’s gone to market. I expect she’s waiting till the rain stops before she comes back.’
Once inside the dry kitchen and divested of her coat, Ellen turned to Jimmy. ‘I overheard something as I approached. I shouldn’t have, but couldn’t help it. Something hidden in the barn?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘A stash of guns. Forget you heard anything. Say nothing to anyone. If the Black and Tans found out we were storing them they’d … well … there’s no telling what they might do.’
‘I met some Black and Tans yesterday,’ Ellen said. She was bursting to tell Jimmy of her small part in this war. He listened intently as she related the tale of her mission to fetch the doctor, and her nursing duties.
‘He’s a good man, Doctor O’Mahony. You did well.’
‘Do you know Captain Cunningham?’ Ellen couldn’t help but ask.
Jimmy nodded. ‘A good man. One of the best. He was involved in an ambush on the RIC barracks on the Dublin road that went wrong. One Volunteer escaped, two were shot, and the man your mistress is helping was shot and left for dead. The man who escaped fetched help and went back to rescue him. Thankfully by then the Black and Tans had moved on.’
Ellen was horrified. She looked at her feet for a moment, then raised tear-filled eyes to Jimmy. ‘Tell me, my love, is this the sort of mission you are asked to carry out, as well? Could it be you one day, brought back to Carlton House bleeding and dying?’ The last word emerged as a broken whisper.
He took her hands in his across the kitchen table. ‘I’m careful, always cautious. I take no unnecessary risks. But I must do what I am asked to do by my superiors. For the good of our country. Ireland needs me.’
‘So do I,’ she whispered, and he took her face in his hands and kissed her, long and deep, until she melted into him and forgot all her concerns. Jimmy would be safe on his missions. He had to be. The alternative was unthinkable.
Ellen’s mind was still on the cache of guns hidden under Mr Gallagher’s barn as she walked back to Carlton House. She was terrified she would somehow let slip what she’d seen and heard, and bring trouble to Clonamurty Farm and its inhabitants. She’d never been good at keeping secrets as a child, but these days she was getting plenty of practice. She supposed it became a way of life in the end, this not trusting, keeping quiet, holding secrets. It had all been so much easier when she and Jimmy were children, when life was fun and innocent, and the only secret they kept was where they’d found a blackbird’s nest.
It was in the afternoon of the next day that the news came. Ellen was on duty in Captain Cunningham’s room. She’d just finished changing the dressing on his head, and was wondering whether to do the one on his shoulder too. She wanted to know what could have caused such an injury, but knew better than to ask him outright.
Her patient had been awake for part of the day, and they had chatted about inconsequential things – the fineness of the bedroom’s decor, whether green was the best colour for a bedroom or was blue more restful, how good the weather had been over the summer and whether the winter would be a cold one, whether Ellen was enjoying the Dickens book. But neither had said anything of importance. Ellen guessed that perhaps Captain Cunningham was not sure whether she could be trusted, not sure what she’d been told about him. And Ellen felt that the less she knew the less likely she’d ever let anything slip. Her greatest fear was that some day the RIC, or even worse, the Black and Tans, might question her and she’d inadvertently blurt out som
ething incriminating.
Madame Carlton came rushing in to the green bedroom in the mid-afternoon with the news. She looked flustered and upset, wringing her hands.
‘Oh, Jack. It’s horrible. I hardly want to pass on the news but you must be told …’
‘Madame, should I go?’ Ellen hated to interrupt but did not want to stay to hear something she shouldn’t.
‘No, Ellen, you stay. I am only here to pass on some news and then I need you to stay with Captain Cunningham a little longer. You will hear the news by other means in any case.’
‘What is it, Emily?’ said the man in the bed.
‘Those … ruffians, those thugs … the Black and Tans – they have attacked Blackstown. They’ve gone on the rampage. Shops and pubs looted, people turned out of their homes, many buildings still burning.’
The Captain cursed under his breath before asking, ‘What triggered that?’
‘A gang of them were drunk, ran out of money, said they were “requisitioning” whiskey and ale from one of the pubs. The landlord tried to limit how much they took but then it all turned nasty.’
Captain Cunningham shook his head sadly, as Ellen tried to stifle a gasp. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Some injuries. The pub landlord was badly beaten. A few people suffering from burns. No reports of deaths, thank the Lord. The injured have been taken to hospital in Navan.’
‘Please God they’ll be all right.’ The Captain crossed himself and Ellen mirrored the movement. So this was the type of thing the Black and Tans did, that Jimmy had been afraid of! Why were they so undisciplined? Setting fire to civilian houses was hardly an acceptable act of war, was it?
‘There’s more,’ Madame Carlton said, quietly.
There was silence in the room as both Ellen and Cunningham waited to hear what else she had to say. She paused for so long that Ellen began to move towards the door, thinking that perhaps it was not for her ears, but before she reached it Madame spoke again.
The Forgotten Secret Page 11